Page 45 of Something Like Shelter

My hand itched to knock that smug look off his face. I had to curl it into a fist to make sure I didn’t make that mistake.

Suddenly, a lot of things made sense.

The way Willa carefully edited every conversation at work. The way she’d smiled through comments about maternity leave. The way she’d insisted she was fine when it was obvious she was exhausted.

She wasn’t imagining the judgment or being oversensitive. She’d been protecting herself from people who were perfectly willing to make her motherhood into some sort of professional liability.

And she’d trusted me enough to bring me into that world. Her trust mattered. Maybe more than it should have.

“I’m sure she would be worried about that. If it were still 1954. Luckily, the only metric she needs to measure how her parenting looks is how happy her daughter is. And when it comes to that, believe me, she looks fantastic. If you’ll excuse me, I need to give Chris a recommendation for a contractor.”

I made a quick exit and disappeared down the same hallway Willa had. I leaned back against the wall, taking a deep breath.

Just then, the door opened and a frazzled-looking Willa stopped short.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Your boss is an asshole.”

“Oh, God. Did he insult you?”

“He wanted to know when I’m going to make an honest woman out of you because it’s ‘not a good look’ to be an unwed mother.”

“What is this? The 1950s?” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry about him. He always has a snide remark to make. Before Adelaide, it was about my hair, nails, clothes, how I styled my office. He’s just miserable and wants to make everyone else miserable too.”

“I’m shocked he has a wife who puts up with him.”

“Oh, she delights in making his life miserable. And he can’t divorce her.”

“Why not?”

“Because it was her money that built his company. He’d have to give her not only half of all his assets, but would need to buy her out of her shares of the company. And he can’t afford that.”

“That makes me feel a little better.”

“Right? Ready for some food to make all this worth it?” she asked.

I offered my arm and led her to our table where we sat with a few of her amiable clients who made the next hour or so the most pleasant of the evening.

That is until one of them pulled his wife out toward the makeshift dance floor and insisted I do the same with Willa.

“It’s okay if you don’t dance,” she whispered.

I wouldn’t know what the hell to do at a club, but I knew how to slow dance.

I stood, offered her my hand, and waited for her to place hers there before leading her onto the dance floor.

The appropriate thing would be to keep space between our bodies, like I’d been taught when I’d learned to dance.

That wasn’t what I did.

I pulled her flush against me, her soft curves melting into my hard lines.

For a brief moment, her gaze flicked up, her eyes soft, before she leaned in, resting her head against my chest instead.

Then we were swaying with the music.

For once, there was no pretending.